


the sunset isn't what I'm looking at, my dear

by sciencemyfiction



Series: Rally Ho - Warriors of Light [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: F U C K I N G, F/F, Fingering, Marci and R'Linvra sittin' in a tree, Neck Play, OR IS IT, actual tags are, kissing all over the bod, look my catwife and I gotta get some happiness in there somewhere, mild shadowbringers spoilers but like, subtle ones, these middle aged miqo'te are having a nice evening and that's what the story is about
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:28:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sciencemyfiction/pseuds/sciencemyfiction
Summary: I'm capable only of writing snippets of sexy funtimes and ominous dreams, apparently. Enjoy!
Series: Rally Ho - Warriors of Light [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535696
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

_I have been here before._

Marcellette's hand is resting in a soft hand, with delicately manicured nails. This hand is connected to soft arms, loose, sunburned shoulders. There is R'linvra's smiling face, her (green?) eyes, her red hair spiked and short like a lion's mane, and they are laughing, naked, in the shade beneath Marcellette's favorite palm tree. Her heart swells with love and R'linvra's breasts are hidden under her hands, while she giggles and Marcellette kisses her neck. It must be love, it must be love, right? That's what love feels like: like your breath stopped in your throat, and your chest too small to hold you. Their tails are in the way, because sex is messy. 

Now she is kissing a round little belly, and oh, she loves R'linvra's belly, the roll of fat from sitting and weaving often into the night. She loves the little birthmark on R'linvra's hip. She bites the outside of R'linvra's thigh, just so, lightly, and _that is a laugh,_ a wild and crazy laugh, the best laugh. 

"What's that sound?" she teases, and leans in closer, brushing her hair over R'linvra's skin. A thigh jumps, knocking her hard in the shoulder, and they collapse in a pile of laughter. Sea salt in the air, sun on their skin, the hum and sigh of insects, birds, and waves. 

No music, no people, no world-shattering responsibilities. 

_I want to go home to you._

It feels like sunset, cool winds beginning to filter in. Marcellette has always been sensitive to the cold, but they have a blanket on the grass below them and she has two fingers in R'linvra's slit, her tongue dancing on the hood, her nose digging into R'linvra's pubis. Salt on her tongue, and wet on her hand, and R'linvra's sighs on the air, music, music, music. 

_I want to go home. _

Warmth, wrapped around them both: Marcellette's arms around her wife and R'linvra's curled on her chest. Her bright red tail curls over Marcellette's thigh, and they are curled together, too, and almost, Marcellette is sleeping. _Almost._

"But this is a dream, already," says a voice she knows and does not know. "You haven't seen her in ̸̧͉̰̘̊̉̑̃̕͝͝ ̷̛̼̪̦̲̒̃̐̽̇̀̽̕͝ ̶̧̤̞̱̗͝ ̶̲̪̺̣̮̲͓͙͖̪͒̾̋̀̎͜ ̵̧̤͉̣͙̫̬̮̘̒̿̈̌̓̋̎ ̷̛̘̣͓̣̉̽̈̈́͆̉͜ ̶͙̙͍͚̬̭̮̮̩̻̟̂̂̉ ̷̢̡̧̤̮̯̣̻͈͍̪̽̑̓̀̎͐͒̏̎, have you?"

She is learning to hate that voice. (She is learning she is haunted by that voice.)

Marcellette keeps her eyes closed, and her breathing even, and as long as she does, she is here, warm and naked, sleeping in the shade with her wife on a summer day not long ago. She thinks of miqo'bobs and the pretty scarf R'linvra knitted her, and she makes plans about what she's going to build to solve their little too-many-plants problem. There is nothing else because yes, this is a dream, and damned if she is going to give up her dreams to worrying about the world and its needs

(or about t̵͖̩͗̂͛͗͘h̶̙͉̃͠e̴̙̫̜ ̸̛̮͚̰̈̊̏̌̉̈́ͅ ̸̥̻̱̺̈́̅̔ ̷͎̹̰͚͍̼͒̆̈́̂͂ ̴̼̈́̒̇̐ͅ ̶̢̨̖͍͑͌̽̊͂́͝ ̸̛̝̱̘̯̭͑̃͌̍ ̸͇̣̙̻̪̳̐̾̍̌͛̓̕͠a̶̫͔̗̯͈͑̄̀̈́ͅn̴̹͕͉̅͌́͋̄d̴͖̦̯̣͈̬̭̈́͂̒̏ ̸̥̤͆́̏͊i̸͔̝̲̓t̸̞̘̝͔͈̱̋s̶͇͇̹͑̈́̒́͘ ̵̡̯̬̩̞͉̫̑̑̆͘̚͘n̶͚͕̼̪̗̹͙̋̒̐̐̉̿̈́͘e̵̮͕̺̱̭̿ȩ̸̥̩̩͓͎̣͔̑̑̅͜d̵̻̱̱̣̾̔̓͐͗͘s̴̡̛͇͈͙̤͕͗̄͗͑̄̓)

when it is time to just be, just be here, just be sated and sex-sleepy without a care in the world. 

The ghost laughs a little. She is annoyed and yet, somehow, the laugh is endearing, too. _How very like you._

"You'll get no argument from me. I'm still- figuring this out. This arrangement. I don't know why I'm here, or what I'm meant to do."

Marcellette has a guess, but she doesn't want to think about it right now. (A familiar melody plays. The same as from A̷̤̳͔̒͐͗̿͘̕͝͝ ̵̳͙̟̞̣͎̓̿̾̈́̚͠ḁ̶̥̻̓̋̒̌͗̃́̃͌ủ̵̙̪̲̩͉̖͍͖͠͝ ̸̧͚͎̮̍̆͛̏ ̷̨̌̐̐́͘͝t̷̨̢̞̪̼̩͚͓̅͊̽̈. There shouldn't be any music here, but R'linvra is humming it. She was there? She was there, of course she was there. Or is this just-) 

She opens her eyes. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Next?" says Willow. She is sitting astride Nugget, whose off-white plumage is looking unusually stark and pale today. (Were Nugget's eyes always black? Were his talons always gold?)

"Uh," Marcellette is still naked, and some of R'Linvra's bitemarks on her neck and arms have left little bruises. But this is a dream, so she is not concerned about appearances. Willow seems unusually distant, and they are- 

-where are they? 

_I don't think I've ever been here._

"I've been here," says Willow, touching her chest. Something is spreading under her clothes, a plague, quickening, pulsing through her body. (Does it move faster because she is a lalafel? Was it this fast when it happened to- no, that memory is not for now. Marcellette is trying to sleep, yes, she is trying to rest. This will not be restful, to relive that moment yet again. Jihlel and Alisaie already are tormented by it, anyway. Let the legacy be something other than that terrible moment.) "I've died here."

"R'Linvra was with her," says the voice. She'd almost ask how it's possible to know, but of course _they know_, they were stalking the whole group, weren't they? To and fro and fro and to. 

_I bet Nern couldn't stand you._

"It was Danica who tried to punch me." Much-suffered, but also amused, and of course she did. Marcellette wonders what happened to Willow out here in this place she doesn't know. This is part of the Greatwood, isn't it? How has she never been here? It's so shadowed and dark. 

"Did R'Linvra save you?" she asks Willow. 

Willow seems to be lacking color, too. So does the wood. So does the world. 

"Has any of us ever saved anyone?" Willow wonders. Nugget warks. 

Marcellette is the only one with any sense around here. She turns around, and walks away. She can feel the voice's owner moving with her, a little tug of curiosity at her side. (The sensation of being watched.)

"Where are you going?"

_Il Mheg. Or home? I wanted to remember more sex._

"You're just saying that."

_I do want to be with R'Linvra. I miss her._

Silence for a long time. She walks across an endless wasteland, wicked white, wall to wall, far as the eye can see. Then the voice sighs and says, 

"I understand that more than you may know."

_Is that why you're still here with me?_

She gets no answer. 

She walks across an endless wasteland, but at least she knows she is not alone.


	3. Chapter 3

_Am I sleeping too long? This is the third dream I've seen._

"I feel like I've told you before about my sleeping habits. Surely you can't expect me to be your judge." 

That's true. Marcellette has read about dreams, learned about them when she was still an apprentice carpenter and realized she had trouble keeping normal hours, trouble sleeping like the others slept. Beatin understands her there. Many a late night they've spent in camraderie, silent, working together across the guildhall. He understands the grain of the wood and the comfort of the carver, and he understood about sleeplessness, alert watching through the night, about drowsing in sunbeams instead, only ever for a short while. Dreams are supposed to be quick, to happen rapidfire while the sleeper is unaware of how the mind moves. Perhaps things are moving more quickly than she realizes, and in no time at all, she will awaken. And yet-

Well, it feels like she has been like this forever. Her leg has fallen asleep as well, and there are no fish biting. She never was good at fishing. That's more R'Linvra's specialty. 

_I wish she was here._

Sometimes she feels the echo (not the Echo) of R'Linvra's presence in her side as if they were leaning together; or a hand's warmth clasping her hand. She tries to squeeze back. She tries to stay calm. This fishing hole is one of the ones in Outer La Noscea, if she remembers right. Somehow, there's Vanu Vanu islands just overhead, too. That doesn't seem like it was always so. Maybe it's nothing. 

"Marcellette, may I ask you something?"

Alphinaud looks extremely uncomfortable, wearing her hat. Maybe the holes for her ears are making the hot sun singe his cheeks. She's always thought he looked awful pale. She can't remember but were his eyes always █████? 

_I don't want to see this._

"You should wake up," suggests the voice. 

It's pulsing across his chest, the same affliction she saw on Willow, now. Her head feels like it's spinning, and she's hot and cold at the same time. She feels the pressure, the impossible pressure, and oh, she could speed things up, or she could hide, hide away somewhere soothing and quiet, and nobody would be in danger, and Alphinaud takes her silence as affirmation, continues on. 

"Will I die here?"

It's a dream, it's only a dream and no, this child must not die on her watch, this child who R'Linvra dotes on, and Marcellette takes both of his shoulders and squeezes them hard enough that bones should creak. His skin gives under her touch in a weirdly familiar way, all rubber and no substance, and his face she can't look at his face she can't let herself see this happen she must

wake

"-up!" 

No, where is she now? High winds, storm, loud storm, confusing, senses twisted. Dark depths below, lights flickering like a secret starscape down there, something old, and ancient, something comforting. Y'shtola is here, Jihlel, Alisaie. R'Linvra, there she is, she is pinning up her hair like the mast of the ship isn't starting to snap. 

"Whaddaya think, Marci~?" R'Linvra gives a little twirl to show off her messy bun, and color is still in her cheeks, her ḅ̴̎l̴͖͉̝̟͙̋̆a̸̖̦̪̘̟͙̋̂̂̔̕͝c̶̟͎͕̥̦̳̓̐̓͛͛k̵̺̞̹͉̮̚ eyes round and full of life, of promise, the night sky reflected in them like a thousand thousand dreams. 

There are no clouds to explain the wind, no source of the thunder and lightning. Lyse is here, laughing with Y'shtola and offering her some tea. Why isn't anyone reacting to the impending shipwreck? Why-

"_-hh!_" 

She sits up in a bed, in an inn, in a place that isn't home. No scent of R'Linvra, no sign of her friends. She almost doesn't remember why she came here. (Right. Gathering some lumber for the Mean. Got it, got it.) It smells musty and she is cold, and alone. 

No, wait-

"Not alone," says the voice, and oh, is she hearing things? Is she dreaming still? Or- "Not alone unless you wish it."

Marcellette looks about for signs that she is still dreaming, but she cannot find them. She wonders if R'Linvra would hear her, if she tried to use her linkshell. Is this too far apart? Does this count?

"I know I am a poor substitute for your wife, but she is not Here. You will have to go back, if you want to find her."

There are three possibilities: that she is sleeping, and no one will find it odd if she talks to herself because it is her dream; that she is awake, and no one will find it odd if she talks to herself because she is alone right now; and that she is awake, but someone will overhear her, and react to her talking to herself by sharing the news that she does such things with others who may, possibly, given recent events, become very concerned about her indeed. 

Marcellette chooses, cautiously, to check if she is wearing clothes again. (She is. The same ones she went to sleep in, heavy pants and a thick sweater to keep out the cold as much as possible. It's only half-working.)

Then she whispers,

"Back to the Stones?"

"Yes."

"Ha." She might as well rise while they're talking, so she does, slipping back out of bed, stomping into her boots, starting a fire in the fireplace. Maybe she'll put a kettle over the flame, and make tea. "With nothing to show for the journey? No. I can't. Not yet, anyway."

"Hm."

They say nothing else at all to each other through the rest of the night. When the morning light begins to filter into the room's dirty windows, she glances out of the corner of her eye at the half-imagined profile of her company. As expected, it vanishes the moment she tries to look directly at it. 

"Sorry." She feels about as sorry as she did when she spoke with that Minstreling Wanderer, which is to say, both very much and not at all. 

"I feel as though perhaps it should be me saying sorry to you," says her guest. 

When the fire is steady enough, she puts on the kettle as she'd planned. She has leaves for one pot of tea, from her harvest the day before. She savors the first two cups and makes them last until the sounds of others stirring in the inn marks morning's true beginning. Then she puts out the little fire, and heads out into the hall and downstairs, to ask for a helping of whatever's on for breakfast. 


	4. Chapter 4

The next time she feels especially conscious of her newest ghost is close to evening, as she's strapping together the logs she's made from her sojourn along the thickly wooded slope. One moment she's busy pulling a strap taut and checking the fastening to be sure it won't all come undone when she picks it up, and the next there's a sense of someone looming behind her. It's not an ominous presence, exactly, but definitely not Living, either. 

She doesn't say the name that matches the figure- not any of the names that do- but nods, because she knows they are there. She doesn't look this time. It's tiresome, being alone. Even if this is odd company, she feels a sort of ugly kinship, too. She has brought death as much as song with her, where she travels. Maybe they have some things in common, despite everything.

"How strange it must be, to perform such...meaningless, mundane tasks when you are capable of shaping the entire destiny of a world."

A little smile catches her lips in spite of her best efforts to keep a straight face. There is an art to complaining in a way that passes from obnoxiousness over into humor, and ▩▩▩▩▩▩▩▩▩▩▩ is very good at it. The wind is high, up here, and cold and sharp, with the promise of snow. It hasn't snowed yet, but there's that little threat implicit in the chill on the air. She shivers, and hoists her bundle, now that she's convinced it has been fully secured. 

"Do you enjoy them?"

"Of course I do." Why _does_ she have another ghost along on her shoulder? Were the others not enough? Were they maybe too much, after it all, after everything? Is it like Fray and Haurchefant and A- "Why are you here, anyway? Not that I mind, but."

She starts walking down the mountainside again, careful not to trust her weight to each foot as she steps down until she's tested the ground as she goes. The lumber is a moderate burden, but she was already sweating from the work preparing everything. Her hair is clinging to her cheeks where it's long enough to reach them, now. She needs to shave it off again. 

"I think I was lonely," says the empty space, softly and reluctantly, like it isn't totally certain this is so. "It's strange. Things fade in and out."

Marcellette thinks this must be the effect of her focus, returning to and leaving her guest. There's no way to focus always on this guest and not the many other pieces of her life, but she supposes that's fine if it's fine with- 

"How about now?"

"Now?"

"Are you lonely?"

"Well, hero," says her guest, a little wryly. "That depends. Are you?"

Wind stirs the trees and shrub all round them, rustles the leaves, and it cuts through her clothes with cold, but it also brings the fresh scent of budding flowers, grasses, grains, animal stink and soil damp with rain. Marcellette isn't from this place, but she feels the kernel of its life at its core and it still is familiar enough to be comforting, the way a home can be comforting. 

"Less than I was," she says with a smile, and out of the corner of her eye she can tell that her ghost is doing the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE FRIEND IS NOW IN SHADOWBRINGERS TERRITORY SO I'M CONTINUING


	5. Chapter 5

She comes home, and when she comes home, there is nobody waiting for her that wasn't already with her. 

That is to say, there is the silhouette that shadows her now, and the memory of another who is with her more deeply in her heart; and there is the feeling of Fray, and Haurchefant and Ysayle, and all the many ghosts she gathers as she loses people, even though she tries her best to keep them. Maybe this is the gift of the Warrior of Light, in truth: to keep a strand of memory of each important living person whose heart was dear to hers, and weave them all together, like a shawl that shields her shoulders from the harshest weather. If it were her world and her will, Marcellette thinks she would do away with the Echo, for she never wished to witness the very personal moments and feelings of other people. It is a power that pains her, curses her with knowledge and need not her own. She aches for those whose loss she feels, both on the dying end and the grieving; and she hates how she steals secrets, all without ever lifting a finger to try. 

But this is not her world: it is Hydaelyn's. It does not work as she wills it. 

"Are you brooding?" asks her guest in obvious boredom, and almost they move a knife sitting out forgotten on her kitchen counter; almost. "Did I-?"

_Did_ they? She watches the knife but doesn't look at the not-quite-there silhouette, and they both hold their breath (however unnecessary that may be for one of them) as her visitor tries to move the knife again. It rattles where it sits, but doesn't quite change position. 

Marcellette doesn't want to answer this question. If it's true, if she's really seeing items move about at the behest of her guest, she'll have to consider just how dangerous a passenger she's picked up. It's not her first time dealing with ghosts and after-images, but generally the others are more memory, less aether and manifestation. They also, she supposes, never talked much until Ardbert- but there _was_ talking, from time to time, so she hadn't really questioned if that might be unusual. And now this; with a guest who she has been talking to, off and on, for a while now.

"If I may speculate," begins her guest. 

Marcellette cuts them short: "No, you may not."

They're left to sit in awkward silence, both staring at the knife, both thinking, until her guest tries again, more petulantly, this time:

"Well, then, what do _you_ think is the cause?"

She doesn't know, not well enough to say for sure. Is the difference simply...practice? By gathering the bits and pieces of the memories, the people she mourned, time and time again- did she get better at it? What was a flicker of memory here or a ghostly sense of protection there perhaps now is stronger due to her continued effort, granted form or strength by the sheer amount of focus or aether or something she has put into it all? Or (far more likely) is it the nature of _this_ particular person, the likes of whom she hasn't befriended before and doubts she will ever again? (_And were they really **friends**, exactly, while she's thinking about it? _)

"I have some theories, but it's pointless to worry about it."

"It's not me," her guest says quickly. "In case you had wondered if, perhaps, my final act was staged in an effort to bring about this end result."

"Hm." She leans against the wall by the fireplace, and chews on that piece of information as she taps her linkpearl, and reaches out to the woman she loves, wondering if maybe, maybe, R'Linvra will be able to see what she is seeing. When it comes to manifesting will through aether and magic and sheer concentration, Marcellette is sadly lacking in any practical experience; but her wife knows quite a lot about it, and also, Marcellette would very much like an excuse to see her as soon as possible. "Lin?"

Nothing.

Marcellette thinks of the dreams within dreams within dreams, the black-white-gold spread of Light across R'Linvra's vibrant features, draining and destroying them. She thinks of the incredible pain in her own chest, and she thinks of the monumental task that waking up had become, and she swallows hard, even though her throat's gone dry. 

"Lin, you there?"

And nothing, and then a sleepy yawn and _thank the Twelve,_ it's so good to hear her voice, so good to know she's here, that she's close (well, relatively close). 

"Marci?" A long, high-pitched groan ensues, as R'Linvra doubtless stretches and yawns again, stirring from where ever she'd curled up. There's the faint sound of clattering, and Marcellette can't help a fond smile as she catches R'Linvra cursing under her breath. "Hey Marci~! You're back? Where are you!"

"At my house, just dropping off some supplies. What about you?"

"Ul'dah! Come to meeeee~"

And she wants to, obviously, _obviously_, and immediately, but she catches herself and instead of saying 'on my way!' she says, "Actually, could I get you to come visit? No rush, but I'm trying to figure out a thing, and two heads is better than one. And, you know, also, I missed you, too."

A laugh rollicks over the linkpearl's connection, and Marcellette smiles to herself. 

"Pretty please?"

"Aww, I could never say no to you, Marci! A'course, a'course, I'll be there before you can say Parsemontret!"


End file.
